


Monday, Monday

by KylaraIngress



Category: Quantum Leap
Genre: First Time, Friends to Lovers, M/M, POV First Person, pre-Leap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-18
Updated: 2014-09-18
Packaged: 2018-02-17 21:38:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2324033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KylaraIngress/pseuds/KylaraIngress
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Al during a normal (or not so normal) Monday at PQL.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Monday, Monday

**Author's Note:**

> Previously published in the zine _One in Ten_ issue #6, a multi-media slash zine, and written in the early 2000s. Putting up here as part of Throwback Thursdays.

** SAM: **

I must be the only person in the United States that actually hates to see Friday go and loves to see Monday come. Now, it's not because I'm the work-a-holic everyone thinks I am. I hate going into work just as much as the next person. No, the reason I look forward to Mondays can be summed up in one word.

Al. 

Coming into work on Mondays gives me an entire week, eight hours a day, forty hours total, of working across from Al. I'll admit that sometimes I program Ziggy to mess up just so I can work late with him.

He doesn't know. I don't think he's even picked up that I'm gay. I hope not. At first, I was just barely out of the closet anyway, and then as I became friends with him, I realized he was so straight, arrows could pick up something from him. 

Sure, I could see him outside of work. Sometimes, he invites me out to a game, or a movie, or something, and sometimes we spend a Saturday going into town. But then I have to be exceptionally careful about my looks toward him. It's just so much harder to hide longing glances when we're in public.

No. It's the times when we're in the bowels of the newly built Project Quantum Leap, when I can sit and watch him to my heart's content, that are the best. When his dark, curly head of hair is bent down as he looks over blueprints, or computer programs, or any number of other paperwork, I can just sit and watch – looking like I'm staring at my computer screen all the time. Those eyes, slit whenever he's in deep concentration, I like it best when he finally comes across a solution to one of his problems – for they light up in joy and he'll look up and give me one of those smiles that he reserves just for me.

And, of course, I also notice his sexcapade stories tend to be kept to outside the project. He still will occasionally talk about women when we're at work (hell, I'll know he's not Al the day he stops talking about women), but the stories tend to be more . . . romantic in nature. And while he might not know I'm gay, he has picked up in the seven or so years that we've known each other that I don't like talking about women much. He doesn't even ask me about Donna any more – my one attempt at changing my sexual orientation. And it was positive proof that I was gay the day she didn't show up at our wedding. She said it had to do with her father, but I think she secretly knew I could never be the man she needed. That she would never match up to the man who was currently getting his morning cup of coffee and groaning about how lousy Mondays were.

"Ah, Sam, how can you be so bloody cheerful?" he asked in response to my lively "Good Morning". "And on a Monday, to boot?" 

I chirped my usual answer whenever he asked me that question: "Guess I'm a farm boy to the end." I swear it was starting to become a running joke between us. "I mean, back home . . . ." 

"Yeah, yeah, I know," he interrupted, "there was no difference between weekends and weekdays. You've told me that often enough. I swear, if and when I ever meet your mother, I'm going to ask why she had to turn you into a freakin' morning person."

"I'm just glad to get into work," I had to answer. I had trouble lying to him, even when it teetered on that aspect of our relationship he wasn't aware of. "Going a little strong on the coffee this morning, aren't we, Al?" I asked, as I saw him walk away without putting any cream or sugar into his cup. "Heavy weekend?"

He grimaced. "I wish. Nah, I've got a meeting with Weitzman in about a half hour over the damn budget. I need to be as awake as I can for that."

"Oh, I'm sorry," I said, meaning it. Neither of us was happy with that putz involved with the project, but you can't quibble when dealing with close to two billion dollars of the government's money. "Anything I can do?"

"Get Ziggy in the mood to give me some information," he quipped. We had just installed the latest adaptation of the ego into my computer creation, and were already regretting it.

I quickly typed my password into Ziggy, along with Al's request, and received a beep and a hum as my answer. "Looks like she's willing to help ya along," I said with a smile. I looked up, and that's when I caught it. He had been looking at me. As soon as my eyes came up, though, he had diverted them – much like the way mine did when he caught me staring. But, no – it couldn't be. I was only projecting my own motives onto his actions.

"Thanks, kid," he said, and returned my smile. He sat his coffee down on his desk, and typed a bit. "So, you doin' anything for lunch?"

"You going to be in that meeting until lunch?" I couldn't help but ask, the disappointment clear.

"Yeah, I know," he said, misinterpreting my concern. "A three-hour meeting with Weitzman, and over the BUDGET at that, isn't exactly my idea of a dream day. And you wonder why I hate Mondays." 

"Sheesh, Al, I just would've called in sick. And I thought my morning working with Ziggy was going to be fun."

"Ah, well, I'd rather take Weitzman over Ziggy any day," he said with a laugh. An irritated beep from his console was the response to that comment. "Are you sure you want to give IT a voice?" he returned with an irritated glare at the offending machine. 

"What can I say?" I answered with a smirk. " _2001_ was my favorite movie."

"Don't I know it," he replied. "So, what about lunch? You got plans?"

 _As if I'd ever want to have lunch with anyone but you._ "Ah, no," I said, and attempted to infuse a little bit of humor to cover my eagerness. "You're the only one who wants to have lunch with a geek like me."

"You're not a geek, Sam," he said with a sigh. "Anymore than I am."

"Okay, I get the picture – stop the self-depreciating humor. No, no plans. You wanna come grab me," whoops, Freudian slip, there, "when you get out of your meeting and we'll go into town?"

"Papa Frank's?" he asked with a tone to his voice usually reserved for ladies with cleavage you could ski down. No wonder – Papa Frank's had the best food in New Mexico.

"Of course. You deserve it," I said. 

"For what?" 

 _Just being you_. "Uh, you know, dealing with Weitzman and all. It might make you like Mondays better."

"Heh," he laughed. "You ain't never gonna make me like Mondays, Sam. No matter what you do."

 **AL:**  

I've got a secret to tell ya. Now, don't go tellin' anyone, it'll ruin my reputation, but . . . I secretly ENJOY Mondays. No shit. Actually look forward to them. Why, you ask? One reason.

Mondays give me a chance to have another full work week with the only thing that I gave a damn about anymore.

He doesn't know. If there's one thing I've picked up about Sam in these few years I've known him, it's that he tends to get all weirded out when it comes to sex. Hell, he has problems talkin' about GIRLS, for cryin' out loud – I could imagine his reaction if he found out his best friend, his best MALE friend, found him hotter than the New Mexico sun.

Sure, I could get to see him outside of work. We go out to games and bars and stuff, but then I have to share him with so many others (although it IS easier to eye his butt when we get in a crowded mall). 

No – I like it best when it's just him and me. He's got this smile that I know is just for me, a thing that lights up the room better than any of our energy systems, and I get it almost on a regular basis when we're at work. And I've been slowly workin' on him as well, tellin' certain stories that'll hopefully show him that I'm open to anything he wants – if he'd ever be interested. But I know he wouldn't. Hell, that episode with Donna should've shown me he was straight – he cried his eyes out when she didn't show, blamin' himself (as usual) the entire time. 

But HE'S the last person I'd let know that I have this secret, so I play this game, actin' like it's really a tragedy that I'm at work and not at home asleep. Hell, the only time it'll be a chore for me to go into work is when I can't see him (or if, God give me the energy, he ever took me up on my desire and then I'd want to definitely stay at home – but not to sleep).

Of course, THIS Monday I didn't have to act like I was dreading. Most of my morning would be eaten up in this stupid meeting with Weitzman (whatta PUTZ!), and while I had no fears as to the meeting itself (hey, I'm not the king of BS without reason), it would mean bein' away from Sam.

I let my gaze focus in on the object of my desire as he worked his "baby" (God only knows why he wants to think of himself as that THING'S father) to give me what I needed. Not quite awake yet, it didn't register for a half a second that he noticed me watchin' him, and I broke my gaze away. 

"Thanks, kid," I said, and gave him a brief smile. I typed in my password as I thought ahead to when I'd see him again – which would be lunch, if he didn't have plans.

"You going to be in that meeting until lunch?" he asked, clearly flabbergasted. What can I say? Neither of us liked Weitzman. And this meeting wasn't gonna be much fun to begin with.

But then he suggested I should've called in sick? How could I tell him that I'd face a thousand Weitzmans if it meant one moment with him? So, instead, I made a crack about Ziggy. Damn bucket of bolts heard me and promptly beeped at me. And my mad-scientist friend wanted to have it SPEAK?

"What can I say?" he answered with a smirk. " _2001_ was my favorite movie."

"Don't I know it," I gave a half laugh. I should – I've had to watch it a good half-a-dozen times with him. But hey, who wouldn't want to spend time with Sam in a darkened theater? Course, it'd be even more fun if I could get him into the back row and we could . . . . No. Stop. Rewind. Back to lunch.

"You're the only one who wants to have lunch with a geek like me." Jeez – and I thought I had a low self-esteem.

"You wanna come grab me when you get out of your meeting?"

 _Oh boy, oh BOY would I love to grab him_ , but instead I asked, hopefully, "Papa Frank's?" While they definitely had good food, it was also one of the few restaurants that required us to be in a secluded booth – those being the only type of tables they had. 

"Of course. You deserve it." I did? What for?

His face had reddened as he gave me the excuse of Weitzman and wanting to like Mondays better. God, he was so cute when he blushed. I think that's half the reason I still tell him the occasional sleazy tale, just to see those cheeks redden up and those eyes widen and drop in embarrassment.

I gave a laugh to cover my desire, saying, "You ain't never gonna make me like Mondays, Sam. No matter what you do." Secretly thinking how EVERYTHING he does makes me like Mondays, for that gives me a chance to see him.

"So, can you give me an estimate as to when you think you'll get out of your meeting?"

 _As soon as humanly possible._ "Uh, noonish, I hope." My phone rang, and I knew exactly what it was. "Calavicci. Yeah, tell him I'll be right there."

Sam's eyes held a sympathetic gaze. "Weitzman?" he guessed.

"Of course," I sighed. "As usual, he's ten minutes early and swearing I'm running ten minutes late." 

"So, noonish?" he asked. Was it me, or did it sound like he was a little too eager to know when he'd see me again? Nah – just wishful thinking. 

"Tell ya what, Sam. I'll tell Weitzman that I've got an important lunch meeting at noon that I can't miss. That way, I'll have an excuse."

"Well, I'd hate for you to lie for me, even if it is to the Senator."

"I'm not lying. You're very important to me." Oh, shit! Did I just say that ALOUD? "Uh, and to the project. I mean, gotta keep the mad scientist happy, right?" 

"Thanks, Al," he said, giving me one of those smiles. "I know how you hate to get mushy, so that meant a lot." 

I caught his eyes, and something in me said, "Take a chance," but as soon as my mouth opened to tell him my secret, the phone rang again – making me give a half jump. I turned away, scooped up the paperwork Ziggy had been spouting out, grabbed my attaché case, and as I headed out the door, I said over my shoulder, "That'll be him again – tell him I'm on my way." Maybe later I'll tell him. Maybe. 

** SAM: **

I leaned back in my chair, Al barely inches away from me. I had been busy with the computer, totally into working out one of the latest kinks in Ziggy's design, when Al had burst through the door to our office. Not a word was spoken as he pulled off his tie, dropped his work on the desk, and started walking over to me, his hands starting to shed his shirt.

His lips went in for the kill, hungrily tasting every inch of my neck as he pulled the rest of the shirt off.

I just sat back, giving a light moan in response, knowing I had to keep it quiet. The project wasn't exactly the most secluded spot, after all. _What was Al doing?_

"Oh, God, Sam," he said as he moved his hands to start working on my shirt, moving my hands so they clasped his waist, "I want you so bad."

Any rational thoughts I had went promptly out of my mind as his lips moved down to suckle at my left nipple, my shirt still hanging slightly on the edge of my hands, the chair behind me trapping it.

His hands had remained busy, moving down to my jeans, gently unfurling my belt. My hands started to relieve him of his own tightening pants, when I heard it. _Ring._

I shook my head, not wanting the phone to interrupt this . . . _RING_ . . . this moment.

 _RING_. 

I shook my head again, and finally jerked awake. Awake? I muzzily looked around, my mind still in the erotic fog of my . . . my dream.

 _RING_. 

And it finally hit me that it was MY phone ringing, and I quickly sat up from my chair, wincing as my jeans contracted on my erection, and picked up the phone – hoping to hell that I didn't sound like I should be on a 1-900 phone line.

"Good morning; this is Sam."

"Sam? Al. Got a quick break from the meeting, figured I'd check to see if your morning was goin' any better than mine."

 _Hell, YES!_ I wanted to scream out, memories of my dream still tingeing my thoughts. "Uh, I guess you could say that. I . . . I must've fallen asleep."

"So that's why you sound befuddled." 

"Befuddled?" _God, please, don't let him figure it out_ , I silently pleaded.

"Well, more than usual," he joked. "Wish there was a way I could fall asleep without Weitzman aware of it. Guess I shoulda learned how to sleep with my eyes open, huh?" 

I looked down at Ziggy, noting the time as 10:30. And Ziggy's last message was blaring at me – several times: "The information you requested is ready and will be waiting for when you are AWAKE!"

Oh, boy – she was going to hold this against me for a long time. "Well, if you did that, I think you'd be getting pretty much the same response I am from Ziggy." 

"She picked up you were asleep?" The voice was more disbelieving than anything. Hell, we all knew we were delving into a new frontier (pardon the _Star Trek_ pun) with my new creation.

But before I could say anything, the screen started typing again. "And if you think I haven't noticed your obviously HUMAN reaction to your dream, you've got another think coming . . . FATHER!"

"Uh, in more ways than one," I strangled out, my hand automatically going to my slowly deflating cock. Maybe this whole ego thing wasn't such a good idea . . . .

"Your snoring probably woke her up," he joked.

I gave the requested laugh, and asked, "So, your meeting's not going so well?" 

"Yeah," he said, giving a martyred sigh. "Let's just say you are definitely buying lunch, Sam." He paused, and I heard him mumble something to someone off the phone. "Man, the only thing worth goin' through this hell will be lunch with you." He seemed to catch his slight foray into "mushiness", for he quickly added, "That – and bein' able to look at Weitzman's secretary. Man, she's got the nicest set of . . . ."

"AL!" I cut in, as he knew I would. I'd seen Weitzman's secretary – she was just Al's type (of course, what woman wasn't Al's "type"?).

"Pens," came the "wounded" punch line. "She's got a matching set of pens she uses. Jeez Louise, Sam, what did ya think I was gonna say?"

I figured I'd beat him to the punch on his next joke. "Oh, maybe that she did great dick-tation," I laughed.

"SAM!"

What can I say? I loved throwing the occasional curve ball to him – kept him on his toes.

"So, did he buy your 'important lunch date'?" I asked, hesitant. Even though I could hear him, the recent dream was still heavy in my mind and I was really wanting to see him.

"Uh-huh," he said. "Said if we're not done by then, we'll just have to continue after I get back." 

"Oh, fun," I deadpanned. "You sure you wouldn't rather be dealin' with Ziggy instead?"

"I heard that," typed on my computer screen. "Just be thankful I don't mention what you were saying in your sleep, Father. Otherwise, the Admiral might be quite . . . enlightened."

Oh, boy – I was talking in my sleep? Well, I should at least be thankful that she seemed to pick up the fact that Al didn't know I . . . uh . . . dreamed about him. I typed in a quick thanks and apology as Al picked up the conversation with whoever was in the room with him. 

"Well, Sam," he finally said to me, "looks like Weitzman's crackin' the whip again. Gotta go."

"Okay," I said. "See ya in about ninety minutes?"

"Yeah – meet ya at the office." He then started talking to whoever it was, and slowly hung up the phone.

I gave a heartfelt sigh as I, too, hung up the phone. Schoolboy crushes were never any fun – least of all when it was on your best friend. 

"Why are your feelings for the Admiral a secret?" came the question from the screen. I swear, it was acting more and more human every day – and I had a brief flash of fear at what happened with HAL when it started becoming sentient.

"Because I'm sure he doesn't feel the same way," I finally typed in.

"I don't think I'll ever understand humans," came the response. 

"Hell, if you did, Ziggy, I'd be well on my way to another Nobel," I said out loud. And begrudgingly, I sent my little erotic dream back to the netherworld from which it sprang, and slowly went back to work.

** AL: **

God, is it really only 11:30? A half-hour until I see Sam, an hour since I called him. And THAT had been a complete snow job. I had told Weitzman I needed to check some figures for what he had asked me, and tellin' Sam I had gotten a break was nowhere near the truth of the matter.

My fingers impatiently drummed the table in front of me as the Senator read over yet another report, trying to find yet another flaw in the budget, and I let my mind drift to one of my favorite sex fantasies. 

It involved Sam, of course. Hell, these days, it's hard to come up with a fantasy that didn't involve him in some way, shape, or form (you should hear the one involving candy canes at Christmas – let me tell you, 'tis the season to be jolly!). In it, I'm sittin' at my desk, mindin' my own business, when in he walks with that shit-eatin' grin of his. I go back to work, figurin' that if he's got somethin' up his sleeve, I'll find out what it is in enough time. Well, I guess he decides to take the phrase 'something up his sleeve' literally, because faster than I can say my name, he's stripped off his shirt and dropping it on the floor. My eyes can't help but gaze upon his furry chest, and I know my mouth is hanging open in shock.

"See anything you like, Al?" he asks in that coy voice he uses occasionally when he's up to something. And he walks around to my side of the desk, lithe and cat-like. 

"You," I whisper out, barely coherent as his hands snake up my arms and start ever-so-slowly unbuttoning my shirt. He slowly sits on my lap, his legs holding mine tight to the desk chair and he ducks his head in that Midwestern modesty he has as his hands start to play with my nipples almost unconsciously. I swear, the fact that he looks shy about it just turns me on even more, and I know he can feel my cock swelling against him.

"You like this, Al?" he asks, finally catching my eyes with his, and I see his face filled with desire, his eyes changing colors like they can when he's filled with strong emotion, darkening.

I can only groan in response, my breathing already starting to become ragged in anticipation of the upcoming action. His arms snake up to my neck in response, and he ducks down and starts to give me a kiss . . . and what a kiss. Filled with yearning and excitement and enthusiasm, he does more to me in one kiss than most of my other sexual encounters have done in the entire "wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am". 

As he breaks away, he moves his hands to my cheeks, making sure I look deep in his eyes, and he says those three little words I've been yearning to hear: "It's HOW big?"

I shook my head, not sure I heard right. "What?" I asked, wondering why suddenly Sam's voice had changed.

"I was asking, Admiral, about this expenditure for supplies. It's how big again?"

I suddenly realized it had been Senator Weitzman who had spoken (and gave a slight shiver at the visual THAT thought gave me), and I looked back down at the budget figures in front of me. "Well, we run a monthly order of about two thousand dollars," I answered him, and did a quick look at my watch. 11:45. Shit. Fifteen more minutes. Enough time to get the one-eyed wonder calmed down before lunch. With Sam. As if the fantasy wasn't enough, the thought of seeing Sam made the little guy perk his head up even further, as if searching him out.

I took a deep breath (did I say I enjoyed Mondays? Not when they're like this) and desperately ran through the litany of images I kept in my head specifically to calm my cock. And released my breath as I continued in the meeting with the Senator. 

** SAM: **

Finally, noon. I gave a sigh as the clock at the bottom of my monitor clicked over, knowing that just because IT said it was noon didn't mean it was time for lunch. But it did mean it was awfully close. (It also meant I could actually start to LOOK like I was waiting, but that's a whole n'other ball of wax.) I rubbed my neck in reaction to my time bent over my computer and let out a sigh as I gazed once again over the latest problem Ziggy was deciding to leave at my feet. 

"Did Einstein ever have it this bad?" I said out loud to myself.

"Nah, Einstein didn't have a petulant computer with Barbara Streisand's ego to work with," I heard from the door. My head jerked up and I let out another sigh as I saw Al in the doorway . . . .

"Jeez, Al, you look like you've been through the wringer," I said as I took in his features. The crow's feet I found so endearing were in deeper lines than usual, and his black shoestring tie was in a loose knot around his collar. The charcoal suit that he had looked so snazzy in this morning looked like he had slept in it for three days straight, rumpled in more places than imaginable.

"It's just been a long morning," he said, and I saw something indefinable flicker in his eyes. "You ready for lunch?"

"Yeah," I said, standing and locking down Ziggy in one movement. "We're taking your car, I assume?" I asked as I grabbed my wallet out of my desk drawer.

"You think I'm going anywhere in that monstrosity you call a vehicle?" he managed to joke. While my Jeep wasn't the "vehicular nightmare" he acted like it was, it was another long-standing joke about yet another difference in our tastes. "I've got a reputation to maintain, you know." 

"Whoa," I smiled. "Wouldn't dare mess with that." With that, I locked up the office, heading toward the elevator and the garage.

On the way up to his Testarrosa, he filled me in on what happened in the meeting. Apparently, Weitzman was being more of a putz than usual, picking apart every little budgetary issue. 

"Including the toilet paper! I mean, Jeez Louise, it took everything I had to not laugh when he asked me if we could change to a cheaper brand. Ended up tellin' him I didn't particularly like wipin' my ass with cardboard, and if I had to pay the extra buck the soft stuff cost, I would. That made him shut up."

"I bet," I said, walking out of the elevator. I turned and told the guards that we were heading into town for lunch and when to expect us back. By the time I turned around, Al had gotten into the car and driven up to the front. Door-to-door service – what else could I ask for? (Well, aside from that.)

"So, what about your morning?" he asked as I climbed in and snapped the seat belt around me. "Ziggy give you any more trouble after I woke you up from your mid-morning nap?" He gave me a sly smile – and I knew I was in for some serious teasing from him for falling asleep at my station. It was his gentle way of rebuking me for my work hours, I'm sure. Some times, I'd end up working double and triple shifts – have worked entire weekends at the project some times, and so I would often fall asleep at the oddest times as a result.

"Ah, just her usual problems," I sighed. She had kept me on my toes the rest of the morning, interspersing her usual temper tantrums with questions about my feelings for Al and the motivations for my secrecy about it.

"Well, I guess I got the better end of the stick, then," he smiled as he peeled out of the employee parking lot. "Now that we're out of ear shot, I have to say I can't understand why you are so insistent on that damn personality. I'm startin' to feel like I'm workin' with Big Brother – or should I say Big Sister – with the way she gets into everything." 

Secretly, I was starting to agree with him. I mean, one of the things she had asked was for a description of my dream, asking why it gave me the reaction it did. Now, THAT was something I never pictured I'd be doing when I first started tinkering with my string theory!

"But," I argued, both with Al and myself, "the ego is a big break-through. Part of PQL is designed to try and figure out why things happen the way they do, and the computer in charge of it needs to understand the human element – that sometimes humans act irrationally. A regular computer wouldn't be able to track the data we'd need." 

"I know, Sam," Al said with a sigh – this was, after all, an old argument. "I trust ya. I really do. I just wonder how human Ziggy's getting. And whether I really want to be responsible for helping to create the first sentient artificial life form."

"Oh, don't worry, Al," I gave a giggle, thinking yet again of HAL. "If she kills us for the betterment of humanity, I promise to take full responsibility."

"Well, if that happened, we'd already be dead," Al said, joining in the joke.

"Oh, would we?" I asked innocently.

The rest of the trip to the restaurant was spent discussing the basketball game we had watched last night at his place. (Imagine: a late night dinner of Lasagna a la Calavicci, then watching a bunch of sweaty young men running around in short shorts, all the while sitting next to the man of your dreams dressed in his PJs. Let's just say there's probably a good reason for my dream this morning).

We pulled up in front of Papa Frank's, finding a pretty close parking space. The restaurant was one of those places that, while it had great food and stuff, tended to have a very small and loyal clientele, including us. As we walked in, the short gentleman who owned and operated the place noticed us and immediately came to our side. 

"Ah, Mr. Beckett! Mr. Calavicci! It is so good of you to spend your Monday lunch with us!" he said, his thick German accent stumbling over Al's last name – as always. He had told us that both sets of grandparents had come over from Germany, and while he had lived his entire life in America, he still gave the impression of the stereotypical German immigrant. I gave a smile at the names, for despite seeing Al in his uniform almost every visit – and despite the several times we asked him to call us by our first names – Peter Frank was insistent on always calling us Mr. Beckett and Mr. Calavicci. He also always seemed shocked that we continued to visit his little establishment.

"Well, Peter, we figured we needed to treat ourselves today," Al joked as the man led us to what was considered "our" table, one in the back corner; a busboy came out of nowhere with two glasses of ice water, and our place settings. 

"No, Mr. Calavicci, it is you who treat me," Peter returned back. "Will we be wanting menus today, gentlemen?" 

"I don't know about Sam," Al said, turning so as to include me in the conversation, "but I won't. I've been dreaming of having your to-die-for home fried chicken ever since I suggested we come here today."

"Why do you think I didn't argue with your choice?" I said to Al with a smile. Pan fried with more cholesterol than was probably good for you, Papa Frank's fried chicken was one of the most popular food items – making you feel that if you were to die, it was for a good cause. It was always a topic of conversation how the German could make such good fried chicken.

"With mashed potatoes and corn?" he asked as we both sat down on opposing sides of the booth. 

"Of course," we both chorused with a chuckle. He definitely knew our tastes. By this time, a waiter had appeared with our drinks (yes, we really were that predictable), and Peter passed off our order to the man and shuffled off to meet some other entering couple.

"Ah-hah!" Al exclaimed triumphantly as soon as Peter was out of earshot, turning to me. "You knew I was going to recommend Papa's, didn't you? That's why you suggested going out to lunch instead of staying at the project." 

I shrugged. "Guilty as charged."

"And I thought you were only thinking of me, wanting me to enjoy Mondays more."

My hands automatically went to the stand-up dessert menu on the table. While I knew what was on it by heart, it was a habit to play with it to hide my nervousness at being so near to Al.

"You gotta admit, Al – any Monday that includes Papa's fried chicken is bound to be a good one."

He laughed and my heart ached with the sound. "Okay, kid. I'll give you that."

Peter took that moment to return with a basket of fresh, soft homemade breadsticks, gave us a grin, and shuffled off again. We both grabbed a breadstick and greedily inhaled them. Oh boy, did that man know how to cook; his food should be declared a deadly weapon in the fight against cholesterol. I gave Al a huge smile as we both reached into the basket for more breadsticks. "And to think you said you were never going to like Mondays, no matter what I did."

"You know, Sam," he began, then paused as he pulled apart the stick in his hand. "I actually had an ulterior motive of bringing you here today," Al continued. "You see, there's something I've been wanting to talk to you about."

But whatever he was going to say died on his lips when a voice coming from behind me interrupted him – a voice I knew, and knew too well.

"My, my. Sam Beckett. Fancy meeting you here." 

I turned in my seat and felt my face both pale and redden at the same time as I took in the image of Justin Hogan, my most recent ex, standing by our booth. The medium-height, medium-weight young man brushed through his blondish-brown hair with his right hand and gazed at me, his blue eyes twinkling with a light I unfortunately recognized as mischief.

Stepping forward, he extended his hand toward my dining companion and proclaimed, "And you must be the famous Al Calavicci." He shot me a glance, "Or should I say 'infamous'." 

I felt myself get even redder as I slumped in my seat.

Al had started reaching out in greeting, but stopped as soon as Justin had spoken. They both looked at me – Al in puzzlement; Justin in amusement. My ex-boyfriend, to my chagrin, found his voice first. 

"Well, Sam, aren't you going to introduce me?" But before I could even get the words out, he grasped Al's hand and shook it vigorously. "I'm Justin. A friend of Sam's." He shot me another glance, this time with a smirk planted on his face. "A very GOOD friend," he said, with just enough emphasis to make the words mean so much more.

By now, I was almost sitting on the floor.

Al's eyes flickered from me to this strange, handsome young man shaking his hand, then back to me. I could almost read his thoughts as he sat there, gauging my reaction to the whole bizarre situation.

"You know who I am?" he couldn't help but ask, the inherent paranoia and defensive walls of the man never far from his personality.

Justin dropped his hand back to the front pocket of his tight black jeans, and gave a smile. "Oh, Sam's . . . talked about you on a few occasions," he finally said, giving me another look. "From his description, I'd know you anywhere."

I gave an inward wince – part of the reason I had broken off with Justin was simply because he wasn't Al, and I couldn't deal with that. Let's just say he hadn't taken the whole getting dumped thing very well. (About as well as the one time I . . . uh . . . "mentioned" Al at the height of passion.) 

"Oh?" Al asked, definitely curious. "And how do you two . . . know each other?" he asked, his eyes back on me for the answer. 

"We . . . uh . . . go to the same gym," I finally stammered out. Hey, it wasn't a lie per se – how the heck do you think I met him in the first place? – but it was still vague enough to tiptoe around the issue. 

"Yes," Justin said with a cocky grin. "I saw Sam in the locker rooms, and knew I had to get to know him better." 

I went into a coughing fit, as I'm sure he had intended. Al was instantly on top of the situation, handing me a glass of ice water. "Here, drink this, Sammy." I took the glass, and did as he instructed.

I made a major mistake looking up at that moment, only to find Justin mouthing, "Sammy?", which got me coughing harder. No one called me Sammy. No one, that is, but Al. My friend reached across the table, and put his hand on my forearm.

"You okay, kid?"

"Yeah, Sam," Justin echoed, patting me on the back. "You all right?" I felt his hand rubbing lower and lower and . . . .

"I'm fine," I squeaked, quickly scooting away from him and his burning touch. I had forgotten just how much his touch could burn, though after that first time we met, I'm surprised I could.

I had seen him across the gym – I was working on my legs; he was working on his abs. He had caught me watching him and gave me a smile. For the next hour, as we went about our routines, the smiles and glances ran rampant. Our workouts done, we had struck up a flirty conversation in the locker room, which ended with him following me into the showers where we feverishly made out, unmindful of any one who could have wandered in. It only got wilder after that.

Let's just say it was an interesting relationship.

"So, why haven't I seen you lately, Sam?" Justin wasn't quite done with me yet.

"I've been spending a lot of time at the project. Haven't been able to get to the gym lately," I said, hoping he would get the hint.

"You certainly love that . . . project of yours," Justin said with a grin and a glance to Al. Oh, shit! Could he have been any more obvious? "Seems that's all you talked about whenever we were . . . together."

"Well, that's why I . . . dropped the membership," I said, trying to keep up the conversation; trying to tell Justin the score, without revealing too much. "Because, I felt it wasn't fair . . . not to give a hundred percent of my attention to . . . the gym."

"You told him about the project?" Al asked, showing where his concerns were.

"Not a lot, Admiral," Justin replied. "Just that you were there, and that it was top secret." He gave me another look – I could see the sadness and regret in his eyes – shrugged his shoulders, then said with a smile, "Well, I'll let you two get back to your meal. I just figured I'd stop by, Sam, say hello, and to let you know I'm still . . . going to the gym on a regular basis." He patted my shoulder, finishing, "If you ever change your mind . . . I'm sure I can get your . . . membership renewed."

I took another drink of water, understanding, and feeling a bit of regret myself. After all, he wasn't a bad guy . . . he just wasn't Al. 

"Thanks, Justin," I said, letting him know that it was for more than just his offer. "I'll . . . let you know." 

As soon as he walked away, Al grip on my arm tightened. "Okay, Sam. Wanna tell me what the hell that was all about?" 

"What do you mean?" I asked, though I sensed playing ignorant was not going to work this time. Hell, Al wasn't dense.

"Justin," he said, saying the name like it disgusted him. "He wasn't just stopping by to say 'hello', kid. I know a look of revenge when I see it. What's going on with you two?"

Maybe it would be better to finally get it out in the open and face the consequences. Besides, I was sick of hiding, sick of lying to my best friend. Maybe I could still salvage something. But I had a feeling I would never like Mondays again.

I took a breath and sighed, "Al, I'm gay."

** AL: **

I couldn't believe my ears. True, watching the two interact, I could tell it was a hell of a lot more than friendship that had been between them, but I didn't expect Sam to admit that quite so easily. And to admit . . . that . . . .

"What?" I asked, my voice shaky, as thoughts of what could be flashed through my brain (and other parts of me).

He took another deep breath, and repeated, "I'm gay, Al. Justin . . . well, he . . . he was my boyfriend for a couple of months."

"You're gay?" I repeated, suddenly feeling like a parrot. It was like my dream come true. But . . . it was also like a nightmare, having him be interested in someone like Justin. Someone who looked nothing like me – young and blond and muscular and so boyishly handsome (not that I noticed). "But what . . . what about Donna?" I found myself asking. Even with irrefutable existence of Justin and Sam's sudden confession, I could remember his reaction to Donna's abandoning him. He had been completely heartbroken, constantly saying it was all his fault. 

"I was still confused then," he answered, his head dropped – no doubt afraid how I was reacting to all of this. "Back then, I thought my attraction toward other men was just an aberration. A fluke. Something brought on by . . ." and he trailed off, playing with that damned dessert menu again.

"Brought on by . . .?" I coaxed, stopping myself before I tore it out of his hand. 

He finally looked up at me, a ghost of a smile on his face. "Brought on by my feelings toward you."

Wow. When he went out, he went all out. I guessed he figured he had already lost me as a friend, so going all the way wasn't going to change anything. But he was so wrong – it changed everything.

I ran my hand down his arm until it was covering his own, letting my thumb caress his finger gently, lovingly. He looked from me to our hands then back up to me, to find me smiling at him. His eyes reflected nervousness, uncertainty, disbelief, and perhaps just a small bit of hope.

I couldn't stop the humor in my voice as I told him, "Jesus, Sam. You really do know how to make Mondays special, don'tcha?" 

His mouth opened to respond, but he never got the chance, as Peter showed up with our meals. I reluctantly released Sam's hand so he could place the plates down on the table. He gave us both a questioning look, then a friendly grin.

"The young gentleman did not disturb you?" he asked us. He patted Sam on the shoulder, and said, "He did say he knew you, Mr. Beckett."

I sat there for a second in confusion before I realized who he was referring to. And before Sam had a chance to respond, I answered, "Nah, Peter. In fact, he made my day."

Yet again, I lost Sam to a fit of coughing (hey, I had to wait until he was drinking, didn't I?). And I couldn't help but give my patented leer as I continued, "In fact, I might have to permanently change my views on going to the gym. From the way he talked, it sounded . . . fun."

Poor Pete had no idea what I was talking about. But Sam did. And I gave a smile as his cheeks reddened even further . . . if that was possible. He ducked his head, and dug into his chicken. Pete just looked from him to me, shook his head in tolerant amusement, muttered, "You two are always making odd jokes," and shuffled back off to the kitchen. 

"You," Sam said, finally, pointing his fork laden with a piece of chicken, "are incorrigible."

"I guess that's why you like me, huh?" I answered with a smile. 

"No," he said, giving a shy smile. I swear he was able to twinkle his eyes as he continued, "That's why I love you." 

Wow. Talk about two bombshells in one day. But I didn't get much of a chance to say anything before he asked, "Why didn't you ever say anything to me?"

"Hell, kid," I said with a sigh, "I've messed up more than a few friendships by adding sex into the mix. Besides, I never thought you . . . uh . . . swung that way."

"You neither," he said with a laugh. "I mean, all those sexcapades."

"Well, you do look cute when you blush," I said, and got a blush as a result. "But now that I know you do," I continued with another leer, "I've got a few different stories to tell you. Let me tell you about this dream I had during Christmas." And I hunkered down to tell him the rest of my fantasy.

Lunch passed pleasantly (oh, boy did it pass pleasantly), and once we got back to the Project, the rest of the afternoon just flew by. Of course, me bein' higher than a kite on Sam's confession helped a lot.

I walked into the office to get my things, Sam was sittin' at his desk, leanin' back in his chair, a pensive smile on his face.

"Good afternoon, Admiral," the new voice of Ziggy welcomed me. "Dr. Beckett and I have been having the most interesting conversation regarding you." 

"Oh?" I asked and took a step toward the mad genius in question, wondering where he was able to get such a sultry, sexy voice for his computer, and how he had been able to install it so quickly. 

"You remember how I had fallen asleep earlier today?" he asked. At my nod, he continued, "I . . . uh . . . was dreaming of you, and Ziggy was able to catch onto certain . . . uh . . . aspects of the dream." By this point, his cheeks were so red he could've been wearin' makeup. 

"Oh?" I took another step and smiled. 

"Let's just say she's hoping I'll find Monday nights as wonderful as Monday days," he said, and stood up, bringing me into a mind-blowing lip lock.

Let me tell you, I ain't never gonna say I hate Mondays again.


End file.
